Enigma
by old copperhead
Summary: Hercule Poroit is sorely tested by a murderer, with no respite frothcoming.


A billionaire was stabbed in the neck in London's West End, and now Hercule Perot was on the case.

The billionaire's family hired Mr Poirot for twelve thousand dollars-not a one was distraught at the news of his death, although that in itself did not surprise the Walloon detective. In these situations, they were often more anxious about divvying up the inheritance monies, and so it was here. Edgar Summers, the dead man, fathered ten children, of whom six were alive in the present day: the eldest, Thomas, 45 years of age, a tall gaunt man with a diseased jawline riddled with abscesses oozing blackened blood and malodorous gobs of pus, gray calcified masses of plaque where gums should have been, a single brown tooth, deeply infected, hanging by the roots, and mottled pits where the other teeth had once been; Claire, a year younger, a little mouse of a woman, not even five feet tall, and so thin as to be nigh on starvation, and she was unmarried and you could clearly see the knobby spine through her clothes, and her ribs in the front, and her hair was growing brittle; William, 40, deformed in that he was born cycloptic, with only the faintest slash of a mouth and no nose whatsoever, but the hardiest and strongest of his family, a brute and a bruiser who often broke into people's homes and stole cigarettes, jacked off in the closet, and departed; Avery, 39, resembling Thomas and Claire, though much shorter than the former and haler than the latter, he was balding and physically weak, and his wife died along with their three children in a housefire that Avery fled from immediately without the least attempt to save anyone else; Bartholomew, 35, who was handsome before suffering burns to his lips, cheeks, forehead, eye, neck, and shoulders, grievous, and a wonder that he lived, given that bone peeked out here and there, and none of it healed correctly, only one of his eyes remained and it was bright blue; lastly Joscelin, 27 and his daughter with a different woman, brunette and smooth-skinned and considered beautiful, but very much a criminal, poisoned her husbands and children, she embezzled and blackmailed, robbed, committed fraud and larceny and numerous intentional hit-and-runs and amused herself by shooting young boys and girls in the countryside.

'Yes, Captain Hastings, zis collection of freaks and degenerates must be watched: for even if they did not kill Mr Summers, surely they will not cooperate peacefully with one another when it comes to their inheritance. Mark me: the least sinister of them is capable of grisly murder a thousand times over.' The good captain was taken aback, and then heard to agree, but it was Inspector Japp who shook his head and exclaimed. With his bushy moustache, pipe, and gruff mien, he was as a Colorado Carcinoma cowboy.

Later that evening, the Inspector thought about all the things of risk-analysis and detainment, proceeded to drive to the Joscelin Everley residence, clad in a balaclava, broke into the house and found the young lady stretched nude on the bed, counting money she had stolen that very day, and he surprising her bellowed in rage, overpowered Ms Everley and left her tied up and gagged tight enough that her speaking or escaping was unthinkable.

He brought the struggling wench with him, dumped her in the back seat where she wiggled like a worm, and then he drove over to Bartholomew's house, overcame the once-handsome man and gave him the same treatment he did Joscelin, and Claire as well, who looked rather comical in this state, as did Avery and Thomas, especially as the five were stacked as firewood, making pitiful grunts and moans and wriggling over each other like maggots.

However, William surprised the Inspector when he encountered him in his filthy pig-pen of a house, and the two gave forth with shouts and fought for a while, and the cyclops hoisted Jaspp into the air and snapped his neck at near the same instant Japp plunged a knife into the big man's armpit. They died thus, bravely, in mortal combat, and Peroit and Hastings will be devastated when they hear of this, although the former anticipated this event even as he hoped it never come to pass.

Meanwhile, day turned to night, and the five siblings, all bound and gagged with exceeding tightness for hours, the unfortunate happened. It started with Claire, too weakened to even kick and struggle anymore, crushed underneath Bartholomew and dying of positional asphyxia. Well, the dead lady shit herself in no time flat, and the survivors groaned frantically in protest at the smell. After some ten or fifteen minutes, it worsened, and Joscelin was the first to vomit, but with the thick tight gag in her mouth, tied devilishly tight by Japp, the young woman began to choke and retch on her vomit, and the stink of it all was just too much for them. Her eyes watered, and the acidic burn was in her throat as well, and panic blared, for her and the others. Avery and Bartholomew and then Thomas all puked sequentially. Although exhausted beyond reason and tied so _tightly _that escape would not have been possible anyway, they found the energy to renew their struggles and kick. Bart kicked so forcefully that he broke Joscelin's ribs, and she shrieked in pain even as she drowned in her own vomit. Some time later they expired, the five of them. Death spread its wings and made off with them.

Hercule Poirot, contemplative, as a cunning cocky coach of camp and creativity, soon deduced that one of the serving-men was the culprit, and the fellow was hanged for it.

Then Poirot and Hastings went on a long holiday together in Siam, leaving this whole business behind them and enjoying Bangkok.

The end.


End file.
